


Toothache

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Toothache, potential slash goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had mastered his body and its distracting demands. Pain was irrelevant. John didn't like this, but he had grown used to it. Which is why when he got home from the surgery and found Sherlock in his dressing-gown curled up on the sofa in a fetal position whimpering into a cushion, he stood blinking with surprise for a second while fear started running through him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toothache

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> For there was never yet philosopher  
> That could endure the toothache patiently.
> 
> William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, scene 1, line 35.

Sherlock Holmes had made an art of mastering his body, the transport for his massive intellect. Yes, he knew John had said that angrily, sarcastically, but it was nevertheless true.

 

He found that sleep was a waste of time, so he trained himself to function on three to five hours a night, reducing even that to occasional cat naps when there was a case. Sleep was for idiots, not for genius detectives. Food was distraction. Shopping, cooking, so much time wasted. The lethargy and reduced blood-flow to the brain that came after a full meal annoyed him, so he lived on tea and coffee, toast and fruit, and Mrs Hudson's tempting and sinfully good baking. Of course he knew that he wouldn't be able to keep on like this in the long run, but then he had done much worse to his body in the past, and life at the moment was really far too exciting to dwell on the future.

Pain was another thing Sherlock had learned to manage, even ignore, much to John's chagrin. “Pain is your body's way of telling you there's something wrong, you know”, he would say and tend to Sherlock's wounds with long-suffering sighs. Since John had moved in with him, Sherlock had been beaten up (once, memorably, by John), thrown himself over a number of cars, had scrapes and bruises, knife wounds and the butt of a gun to his head, he had dropped into the freezing waters of the Thames, was burnt with a cigarette, and shocked while trying to climb over an electrified cattle fence.

John still giggled when he thought of the fence incident, but he was not amused when Sherlock chased down a thief after jumping down a flight of stairs and fracturing his ankle. “Do you even know what an idiot you are”, he shouted as he reached Sherlock who was sitting next to the unconscious thief, pale and clutching his foot. “Running on a broken ankle! You're lucky if you ever walk again without a limp, you massive clot! Didn't it hurt? Didn't the pain tell you to stop?”

“Pain is irrelevant”, Sherlock answered through clenched teeth. “I caught the thief, case closed, that's what's important. Do you see?”

John shook his head, exasperated. “I see a stupid man who is going to spend a long time healing that ankle before I ever let him set foot outside the flat, Sherlock. Now let me look at that.” He knelt down and carefully, carefully pried Sherlock's hands off his bruised ankle, hissing in empathy. He took off his jacket, pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around Sherlock's leg to stabilise it, then called for an ambulance, over Sherlock's vehement protests.

Sherlock had been lucky that day. He had somehow not aggravated the break, and after spending an annoyed (and annoying) time in a cast and with crutches was able to go haring off after criminals without problems.

 

Sherlock had mastered his body and its distracting demands. Pain was irrelevant. John didn't like this, but he had grown used to it. Which is why when he got home from the surgery and found Sherlock in his dressing-gown curled up on the sofa in a fetal position whimpering into a cushion, he stood blinking with surprise for a second while fear started running through him. What could possibly reduce his stoic flatmate to such a state?

Once he got over his stunned surprise, John rushed to the sofa and fell to his knees beside it, running one hand soothingly over Sherlock's back while pressing the fingers of his other hand to Sherlock's neck, trying to count his pulse. “Good God Sherlock are you hurt how are you hurt who did this where is the wound come on Sherlock talk to me please I need to see where you are hurt...” The worried stream of John's voice made Sherlock uncurl. He looked at John with bleak, pain-filled eyes and whispered, “Tooth...”

Something inside John crumbled. He had long suspected that even someone like Sherlock had an Achilles heel, and it figured that it would be toothache, something Sherlock could neither control nor ignore. But to see Sherlock brought low to a moaning, teary-eyed mess was terrible.

 

“Right”, said John, unconsciously reaching out to gently wipe the tears from Sherlock's cheeks and brush the hair out of his eyes, “right. Molar?” Sherlock nodded slightly. “Have you taken any pain meds? Called a dentist?” Sherlock shook his head and winced. Good God, thought John, Sherlock must be really out of it with pain if he hadn't even thought to take medication. “Ok”, he said, “hang on, I'll get you something for the pain first.” He went to the well-stocked emergency kit in the bathroom and came back with two pills in his hand and a glass of lukewarm water. “Ibuprofen and codeine”, he explained to Sherlock, “should at least take the edge off.”

While Sherlock was carefully swallowing the pills, chasing them with a long, slow sip of water, John pulled out his mobile. Sherlock, feeling a little better for the presence of John, tried to make sense of the call. “Phil? John here, John Watson. Yeah, alright, you? Look, Phil, remember the favour you owe me? I've got a friend of mine here with a toothache, pain level 7 to 8 I'd say, any chance... Yes? Oh that's great, thanks so much! Yes, we'll be there. Ta!” He hung up and turned to Sherlock. “We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 6:30. Phil's an old mate of mine, he'll open his office early for us. Until then we'll manage the pain as best we can, maybe get you to sleep a little. Ok, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn't know what was worse, having to endure the night with the throbbing, icy pain of his tooth or actually having to go into a dentist's office and having someone poke around in his mouth. The Consulting Detective who was not afraid of anything was actually scared of going to the dentist, though he would rather die than admit it. He nodded.

“Good”, said John, even though his face said it obviously wasn't. “Good. Now, do you think you want to go to bed? Lying on the sofa and getting your back in a crick won't help at all.” Sherlock nodded again and got up carefully, trying not to jostle his head too much, trying not to clench his teeth against the pain because that would only make it worse. John looked at him with sympathy but not pity, and he appreciated this. He walked slowly off to the bedroom while John busied himself in the kitchen.

Sherlock untangled himself from his dressing-gown and crawled into bed, but as soon as he laid down the pounding in his head intensified, jolting through his gums in time with his heartbeat. He shuffled up until he sat against the headboard which helped a little. He closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to come and being rather certain it wouldn't.

 

A few minutes later John came into the bedroom, carrying a small bottle and cotton buds. “Clove oil”, he explained, “helps to numb and relieve pain. Here, put that against the hurting tooth.” He gave Sherlock one of the cotton buds that he had dipped in clove oil, and Sherlock obediently did as he was told. The taste was not unpleasant, and though the feeling of the cotton bud in his mouth was strange, the pain did ebb a little. He stared at John who was still standing in the bedroom, indecision written on his face.

John looked at Sherlock, taking in his messy state, his red-rimmed eyes, the slump of his shoulders. Then he shook himself, muttered, “oh fuck it”, took off his shoes and trousers and clambered into bed, watching Sherlock for any adverse reaction. None was forthcoming. John sat next to Sherlock against the headboard and gently prodded him until he moved to lean against him, the side of his head that was not hurting propped against John's shoulder. John once more started stroking Sherlock's back with calm, soothing movements.

“I know you're in pain, Sherlock”, John said softly, “but try to get some sleep. I'll be here if you need anything.”

Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, sucking a little on the clove-dipped cotton, and almost smiled as he felt John's hand brush against his hair and a very, very soft kiss against his brow.

“Sleep, Sherlock”, John murmured, but Sherlock had already nodded off.

**Author's Note:**

> My good friend Random_Nexus was having a toothache, and I know from experience that they can be a bitch from the third circle of hell. Since I couldn't be there to distract her from the pain, I wrote her a fic instead.


End file.
